Mrs Hooper and Mrs Holmes
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock's and Molly's mothers meet for the first time. What can they cook up between them. Sherlolly


Dr. Molly Hooper was just finishing up her day in the pathology lab at St. Bart's Hospital, and was looking forward to spending an unexpectedly quiet evening at home. Her mother had been visiting for the past few days, and Molly had been wondering how she was going to get through the two days left until her departure. It wasn't that Molly didn't love her mother dearly. It was just that that love was expressed better at a distance. Mrs. Hooper, Margaret to her friends, seemed to have one goal in mind, and that was to see her daughter married. If Molly couldn't manage this on her own in London, her mother was sure that she could arrange it if Molly would only move back home to Yorkshire. To this end she travelled southward for one week every year, hoping to find her only daughter ready to marry, or return home.

Molly had taken off several days from her position at St/ Bart's lab/morgue so that she could shuttle her mum from shop to shop, theater to theater, high tea to high tea. She was overdosing on maternal charm, with a side of nagging. And she hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes all week. John said something about him being unexpectedly out of town, but couldn't pin him down as to what kind of case was involved. The previous day, Molly had decided to take advantage of his absence by going over to his flat to retrieve some long overdue equipment which he had "borrowed" from the lab. Her mother had accompanied her, as they had been out to lunch, and were continuing on to St. Bart's so that Molly could show off her lab's newest acquisitions. Mrs. Hooper flinched at the thought of being among all the cadavers, and Molly knew this. Maybe she would cut her visit short?

When they arrived at 221B Baker Street, their knock was answered by the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. "I'm afraid Sherlock's not at home, dear. I haven't seen him for the better part of a week," she informed them.

"That's why I'm here, Mrs. H. I need to sneak back some borrowed equipment. You know Sherlock!" Molly grimaced and shrugged. "Oh, this is my mum, Margaret Hooper. Mum, Mrs Martha Hudson."

"Oh, dear, you don't want to subject your poor mother to Sherlock's housekeeping," Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes for emphasis, then spoke to Mrs. Hooper, "I was just making some tea. Why don't you join my while Molly tends to what needs doing?"

"Oh, I don't want to be a bother…"

"No bother at all. I'm always glad of the company," Martha Hudson took her arm and led her into her flat.

Molly heaved a sigh of relief as she climbed the stairs. It probably wasn't a good idea to have her mum roaming around the detective's flat. If the woman was upset by intact cadavers, Molly could only imagine what a pair of eyeballs floating in a glass, or a human foot in the microwave would do to her. She gathered up the small dissecting utensils which she had come for, and then decided to do a quick check. After cleaning up some tools, stowing his microscope properly, and repackaging some experimental media in the fridge, she surveyed the area. Not perfect, but better. Sherlock needed a lab assistant, but she wasn't volunteering! Giving the flat a final glance, she headed downstairs to join her mother in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

"Molly, guess what. Martha here has an extra ticket to Mamma Mia for tomorrow night, and she's asked me to go with her! I've been dying to see that show, remember. We couldn't get tickets."

Margaret Hooper seemed very excited.

"Mrs. Hudson, that's very kind of you, but surely you had plans…"

"Well, the thing is, they were just given to me this morning. Someone else couldn't make it, so they gave me the two tickets. Everything's arranged. A car is to pick me up here tomorrow at 6:00. Can you be here, or shall we come to Molly's flat?"

"Nonsense, Martha!" Mrs. Hooper exclaimed, "you're being so kind. Of course I can be here. I don't want to cause any inconvenience."

So Molly Hooper spent the next hour sipping multiple cups of tea and listening to the two older women have an impromptu singalong to the tunes of ABBA, of which the landlady seemed to have an endless supply.

So now the pathologist sat in her office biding her time. She planned to leave just late enough to miss her mother's exit for her evening at the theater. Perhaps it was cruel, but she was just a little sick of the whole thing. Mum had sung ABBA tunes the entire evening before. "Dancing Queen" at dinner. "Take a Chance on Me" through the evening news. She boogied around to "Waterloo" on her way to the shower. And the noises coming from that shower were enough to turn off the most avid fan. She left her mother in the sitting room, watching a DVD of the very show she was going to see the following evening with her new friend when she took herself off to bed, and then snuck off to work in the morning without waking her. Unfortunately, Molly had been plagued by calls ever since. What dress to wear? Could she borrow a bag and a pair of shoes? But she couldn't be too upset. Mum had made a new friend, and was really looking forward to a night on the town.

As she readied herself to leave, the door to the lab burst open and in walked Sherlock Holmes himself.

"I see you committed burglary while I was away, Dr. Hooper. Taken to a life of crime, have we?"

"If you would return borrowed things as promised, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn't have to burglarize your flat!"

Sherlock smiled, and actually thanked her for straightening up. "Mrs. Hudson doesn't actually liketo mess around with body parts, for some reason!"

"Did she tell you I was there, then?"

"Not necessary. I can always tell when you've been in my flat, Molly. You have a distinctive odor of vanilla and death."

"Not very complimentary, Sherlock."

"On the contrary. I find it quite appealing," he winked at her. "Anyway, I barely spoke to Mrs. Hudson. She's off to the theater this evening with a new friend, it seems. Better her than me!"

"What do you mean by that?" Molly asked with some curiosity and a bit of apprehension.

"It was supposed to be one of my family's excursions to the West End. Mummy ropes Daddy, Mycroft, and I into it a couple of time a years. But this year my father actually came up with a viable excuse. Not to be outdone, I suddenly found myself out of town on a 'case,' " Sherlock grinned triumphantly. "So, Mycroft, left to his own devices, offered the tickets to my landlady, who is also a close friend of my mother. I think she spies on me, by the way."

Molly had gone a little pale. "Sherlock, I don't want to pry, but don't you get along with your mother?"

"I adore my mother. At a distance. Everytime she sees me, or my brother, in person, she feels compelled to bring up the same topic of conversation."

"And that is…"

"What is the preferred topic of all mothers of middle aged unmarried children, Molly. Take a guess! You're constantly complaining about being nagged by your own parent. You, fortunately, have the patience of a saint. I, on the other hand, feel it much more advisable to absent myself from the conversation entirely, rather than…"

"Sherlock, my mum went to the theater with Mrs. Hudson."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to go pale. "Our mothers are…"

"Together. Yes, Sherlock."

"No doubt complaining about the trials and tribulations of not having grandchildren…"

Molly was turning red. "You don't think…"

"Of course, I do! What do you plan on doing about it?"

"I plan on stopping on the way home to purchase a sufficient quantity of wine to get me through a very uncomfortable conversation." Molly then gathered up her things, put on her coat, and headed out the door.

"I'm buying!" Sherlock said, quickly following her.

The two mothers in question had barely been introduced when Mrs. Hudson, their now mutual friend, pointed out that their children were acquainted. Mycroft Holmes, intelligent man that he was, immediately sensed where this conversation would inevitably wind up, and ventured a quiet smirk at his brothers expense. _Better him than me, _he thought.

"Mrs. Hooper, of course. Your daughter must be Dr. Molly Hooper. My son speaks very highly of her, and Sherlock very rarely speaks highly of anyone, except himself," Violet Holmes scoffed, but with obvious affection.

"Oh my god, you're Sherlock Holmes' mother! I don't suppose I'm giving away any secrets when I say my Molly has been mooning away over him for years."

Mrs. Hudson smiled like some kind of co-conspirator, while Mycroft stood quietly behind his mother, thinking all the time _the game is on, little brother!_

"I've seen pictures of Molly, and she's absolutely adorable. And so accomplished!" gushed Mrs. Holmes. Mycroft just hoped that she didn't spill the beans about where the photos came from. The surveillance was secret, after all. His mother gave him a little wink to indicate that his secrets were safe.

"And Sherlock Holmes! Brilliant. And so attractive! I've seen his picture in the paper. No, no, don't worry . I hardly ever believe anything I read in the papers! He has your cheekbones."

"And my husband's eyes!" Violet laughed. "You should see them up close. They're extraordinary."

"They would make such an attractive couple," Mrs. Hooper sighed regretfully.

"They would also make extraordinary grandchildren!" Mrs. Holmes laughed, but with determination.

Mycroft could almost have pity on his brother, if he wasn't enjoying this so much. "Ladies, shall we go in. We can all go somewhere after and discuss this further," he said as he shepherded the older women into the theater. A look from his mother telling him not to enjoy this too much, for he would be next, was confirmed by her next remark, "Mycroft, dear, how's Anthea?" Mycroft blanched.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper had already finished the first and second bottles of wine, and Sherlock was busy applying a corkscrew to the third, when Molly mused aloud, "How bad can it be? They don't really know each other, after all. What makes you think they would be comfortable discussing our love lives with each other?"

"It's not our love lives, Dr. Hooper. It's our lack of love lives. And it is my mother's favorite topic. You've never met Mummy. She is not, how you say, as socially reticent as I am. She has no compunction about sharing my private life with anyone who will listen. Especially if the have a marriageable daughter."

"What makes you think she would consider me 'marriageable?' "

"You have an IQ above 75, and no inherited diseases!"

"That's a pretty low threshold of acceptability, Sherlock."

"You have met me, right. Believe me, my mother holds no illusions about my likeability."

Molly quickly drained her glass of wine, and fortified with liquid courage, said, "I like you, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned in closer to her, on the couch on which they both sat, kissed her on the forehead, and replied, "Are you quite sure your IQ is above 75, Molly?"

"My mother has doubts about my brains, too. She thinks it's stupid that I've spent so many years waiting for you. She wants me to move home to Yorkshire."

"I didn't realize you were still waiting. I thought you gave up on me a long time ago. And Yorkshire is not your home. London is!" Once again, he leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. "Haven't you heard the expression, 'Home is where the heart is?' "

"You really are a smug bastard, Sherlock. And your aim is really shitty."

"Well, we are on our third bottle of wine, Molly. Perhaps you could do better? Care to try?"

Molly was now wondering just how far the liquid courage could get her, but she was definitely inebriated enough to go for it. Rising from the couch, she repositioned herself on the detective's lap, put her arms around his neck, and lowered her lips to his. The kiss left no doubt in Sherlock's mind that his pathologist was, indeed, not over him.

"Well, I must admit your aim is definitely better than mine." Sherlock whispered in her ear as he moved his arms around her waist, and started to nuzzle her neck. "Why haven't we done this before, Dr. Hooper?"

"Because you're a real arse, Mr. Holmes!" Molly muttered as she proceeded to snog him senseless.

Sometime later, Sherlock broke from the embrace to look her squarely in the eye when he said, "You know, my mother is seldom wrong about anything. And she believes it's about time I settled down and gave her grandchildren. I must say, I'm beginning to agree with her."

"Really, Sherlock, grandchildren?"

"Why not? We've both been practicing on John and Mary's kid, and she seems none the worse for wear. How badly could we screw it up?"

"This is coming from a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath to ''Doctor Death', as the tabloids call me?"

"Exactly, how high can our mothers' expectations be?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"They're our mothers, you git. They think we're both brilliant and beautiful!"

"Well, you're certainly brilliant, Dr. Hooper."

"And you are undoubtedly beautiful, Mr. Holmes, so this could work out."

The snogging continued for a short time longer, until Molly broke away to ask, "Who gets to tell them?"

"Me!" they shouted drunkenly in unison. But the point became moot before the evening was over. A short time after they opened their fourth bottle of wine, and had exhausted themselves rolling around on the sitting room couch, they fell asleep, or passed out, if you want, on said couch. They didn't even wake when Mrs. Margaret Hooper arrived home at a late hour, contemplating the plans she had made with her new best friend Mrs. Violet Holmes.

Mrs. Hooper removed her mobile from her purse and snapped a picture of the detective and his pathologist, wrapped in each others' arms and smiling sleepily, as they lie on the couch. She then sent it, along with a text, to Violet Holmes.

IT SEEMS THEY BEAT US TO IT. MOLLY ALWAYS WAS VERY PRECOCIOUS - MARGARET

LET'S GET THEM MARRIED OFF SOON SO I CAN START WORK ON MYCROFT - VIOLET

Sitting in the backseat of the sleek black car, Violet leaned over to show the picture on her mobile to her elder son. "So, Mycroft, let's talk about you and Anthea."

Mycroft Holmes sunk further into the seat and moaned. He was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, trying to determine who frightened him the most, a soft spoken matriarch or an icy eyed civil servant with martial arts training. He'd go with Mummy every time!


End file.
